959 
P2.45 


UC-NRLF 


B    3    33b    DOS 


PUBLISHER'S  NOTE 

THE  Tale  Series  of  Younger  Poets  is  designed  to  afford  a  publishing  me 
dium  for  the  work  of  young  men  and  women  who  have  not  yet  secured  a 
wide  public  recognition.  It  will  include  only  such  verse  as  seems  to  give  the 
fairest  promise  for  the  future  of  American  poetry, — to  the  development 
of  which  it  is  hoped  that  the  Series  may  prove  a  stimulus.  Communications 
concerning  manuscripts  should  be  addressed  to  the  Editor,  Professor  Charl- 
ton  M.  Lewis,  425  St.  Ronan  Street,  New  Haven,  Connecticut. 

VOLUMES    ISSUED,    OR    PLANNED    FOR 
EARLY    PUBLICATION 

I.     THE  TEMPERING.    By  Howard  Buck. 
II.     FORGOTTEN  SHRINES.    By  John  C.  Farrar. 


Forgotten  Shrines 


JOHN  CHIPMAN  FARRAR 


NEW  HAVEN  -  YALE  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON    •    HUMPHREY    MILFORD    •    OXFORD    UNIVERSITY    PRESS 

MDCCCCXIX 


COPYRIGHT,   1919,  BY 
YALE   UNIVERSITY   PRESS 


1A 

-I 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


I.     PORTRAITS 

Six  of  the  poems  in  the  following  group  received  the  eight 
eenth  award  of  the  prize  offered  by  Professor  Albert  Stan- 
burrough  Cook  to  Yale  University  for  the  best  unpublished 
verse,  the  Committee  of  Award  consisting  of  Professors  Chaun- 
cey  B.  Tinker,  of  Yale  University,  Alfred  Xoyes,  of  Princeton 
University,  and  Edward  Mims,  of  Vanderbilt  University. 


A  SACRISTAN. 

SOMETIMES  on  summer  noons  the  silence  grows 
Unbearable ;  but  then  I  sweep  and  dust 
The  images,  or  polish  off  the  rust 
Blackening  the  twisted  brass.    At  curfew  time 
I  ring  the  bell,  and  then,  it  seems,  the  chime 
Looks  in  my  heart  and  knows. 

There  are  so  very  many  little  things 

Each  day — perhaps  you  might  not  understand 

The  joy  of  reaching  out  a  quiet  hand 

To  touch  the  cross  ;  or  once — it  wras  at  night — 

Suddenly  all  the  hushed  blue  church  grew  white 

With  holy  angels'  wings. 


THEY  tell  me  there  are  gleaming  stars  afar, 
Golden  and  silver-white — I  cannot  tell 
Whether  they  lie  who  speak.     Stars  may  as  well 
Be  crimson  or  blue  or  darting  green-tongued  flames ; 
To  me  they  are  but  hollow,  far-sung  names — 
I  know  not  what  they  are. 

They  tell  me  how  the  world  and  life  began : 

Some  talk  of  fire-wrought  worlds,  some  mystics  dream 

Of  distant  heavens  with  cherubim  agleam. 

I  care  not  whether  they  have  seen  or  know ; 

But  this  is  true — my  heart  has  told  me  so — 

God  was  and  is  a  man. 


10 


A  HILL-SIDE  FARMER. 

DAWN — and  the  mist  across  the  silent  lane ; 
Each  day  its  little  round  of  petty  tasks. 
'Are  you  not  very  lonely  *?'  someone  asks, 
'Here  where  the  old  folks  stay,  and  no  one  new 
Comes  in  to  start  a  farm4?     You  should  go,  too; 
Valleys  grow  better  grain.' 

This  may  seem  still  and  lonely,  but  for  me 
Hill-tops  are  wider  than  the  open  land. 
Maybe  you  never  could  quite  understand 
How  dear  it  is  to  me — this  loneliness. 
You  think  the  hills  are  narrowing,  I  guess ; 
But,  oh,  how  far  we  see ! 


i  i 


A  HILL-WOMAN. 

YOU'D  think  I'd  hate  the  hills ? — well,  this  life  brings 
Little  that's  new.  Once  many  years  ago 
I  thought  I'd  leave  the  place  and  flee  below, 
Down  where  the  world  is  bright  with  life  and  change, 
But  I  met  him,  and  now — it's  very  strange 
How  marriage  changes  things. 

Listen ! — beyond  that  grove  (you  would  not  know) 
A  hermit  thrush,  it  sings  round  five  each  night ! 
One  moment  now,  and  he  will  come  in  sight 
Driving  the  chestnut  mare  !     There,  that's  his  call ! 
7  hate  the  hills?    How  could  I,  now,  at  all, 
Knowing  he  loves  them  so  ? 


12 


A  NURSE. 

I  CAN  remember  quiet  times,  and  those 
When  you  had  tired  yourself  with  riotous  play ; 
Then  we  would  sit,  and  while  the  passing  day 
With  fairy  tales  of  lands  beyond  the  sun. 
You  loved  me,  then,  completely — not  as  one 
Who  does  her  work  and  goes. 

I  saw  you  yesterday.    Your  hair  is  light ; 
We  thought  it  would  be  darker.     Oh,  why,  why 
Did  you  not  know  me  as  I  passed  you  by  ? 
Have  I  grown  old  *?    You  could  not  be  too  proud. 
You  might  have  spoken,  yes,  or  only  bowed, 
Or — have  you  forgotten,  quite  *? 


A  COAL-MINER. 

How  dark  it  is !     This  time  the  load  is  big 
And  heavier.    Somehow,  it  is  so  far 
Up  to  the  places  where  the  carloads  are. 
All  I  can  see  is  her  face,  as  she  sat 
Coughing  and  weakening,  just  for  need  of  that 
Which  I  could  only  dig. 

It  was  so  cold  that  year,  and  damp,  beside. 
Wages  were  low,  and  every  day  I'd  pile 
The  shining  lumps  in  heaping  baskets,  while 
I  knew  she  needed  it.    You  would  have  thought 
I  could  have  stolen  some ;  but  I  was  caught. 
She  had  a  chill — and  died. 


A  BARGE-WIFE. 

How  many  days  now  is  it  we  have  lain 
Here  by  the  towering  docks  ? — I  do  not  know : 
Each  day,  eager  and  free,  the  sail-boats  go 
Out  to  the  west.    I  would  go  swiftly,  too, 
Like  a  bird  at  dawn  across  the  opening  blue, 
Like  a  bird — to  rest  again. 

He  has  grown  silent  with  the  years — men  do — 
Having  talked  the  same  thing  much.    For  my  part  now 
It  is  enough  to  watch  the  huge  boats  plow 
Furrows  of  white ;  to  cook,  to  sew,  to  hear 
Her  little  laughing  voice !     Yet  God,  I  fear 
Lest  she  be  barge-wed,  too. 


A  FRENCH  WOMAN. 

I  CAME  upon  him  in  the  hush  of  night, 
His  eyes  looked  up — and  they  were  close  to  death. 
I  took  him  close,  his  weary,  halting  breath 
Eased,  and  he  spoke — feverish,  swift,  but  clear, 
Voicing  over  and  over  the  hideous  fear 
That  they  had  lost  the  fight ! 

Ah !    Would  they  had !    Our  fearful,  burning  loss 

Cried  through  my  soul — how  could  I  stoop  and  bless 

His  alien  heart  with  our  own  helplessness  *? 

'Yes,  yes,'  I  breathed,  'You  won  !'    His  great  fear  slipped 

To  the  night.    And  dying,  his  chill  hand  gripped 

A  cruel  iron  cross. 


16 


A  NUN. 

HE  died  at  morning.     I  was  nursing  then ; 
The  priest  had  shriven  him,  and  his  soul  was  white ; 
But  in  the  cruel  stillness  of  that  night 
His  tired  eyes  opened  and  his  hand  sought  mine. 
I  took  it  softly.     Pardon  me,  divine 
Mary,  Mother  of  men. 

Then,  first,  I  noticed  his  strong  face,  grown  thin, 
The  yearning  fever  of  his  lips,  the  eyes 
That  longed  for  comfort.     Was  I  too  unwise 
To  stoop,  and  in  the  unseeing  darkness,  kiss 
Away  his  fear  of  death*?    O  speak,  was  this, 
Marv,  a  fearful  sin*? 


II.     SONGS  FOR  CHILDREN  AND  OTHERS 


A  PREFERENCE. 

SOME  children  like  gay  weather, 
When  the  world  is  dry  for  play ; 
But  that's  so  quiet  and  stupid, 
I  like  a  windy  day ; 

When  the  gray  clouds  hide  the  sky, 
And  the  furry  white  clouds  sink  low, 

And  the  thunder-heads  tumble  over  the  hill 
From  where,  I  don't  quite  know ; 

WThen  small  drops  rustle  the  leaves, 
And  large  drops  bend  the  flowers, 

Pounding  the  dusty  turn-pike — 
Rain,  rain — for  hours  and  hours, 

Till  the  big  brooks  jump  down  the  mountain, 
And  the  little  brooks  cover  the  plain, 

Oh,  yes,  I  like  the  rainy  days, 

When  the  world  gets  clean  again. 


21 


PROBLEM. 

FOUR  bright  pennies  in  a  purse  of  brown. 
Shall  I  buy  mamma  a  purple  gown, 
Or  a  cart  to  drive  her  round  the  town, 
Or — shall  I  salt  the  money  down*?— 
Four  bright  pennies  in  a  purse  of  brown. 

Four  bright  windows  where  the  street-car  stops, 

Oh  lollypops  !    Oh  lollypops  ! 

And  two-for-a-penny  lemon  drops — 

Such  fascinating  candy  shops  ! 

Four  bright  windows  where  the  street-car  stops. 


22 


TRAGEDY. 

WHY  are  my  good  dreams  all  done  up 
In  boxes  quite  so  small  *? 
They  stop  at  just  the  nicest  parts, 
I'd  like  to  dream  them  all ! 

I  dreamed  a  fairy  princess  came 

And  promised  me  a  kiss, 
But  just  before  she  paid — I  woke — 

Now  what  a  thing  to  miss  ! 


ROLLER-SKATES. 

RJMBLE,  rumble,  rumble,  goes  the  gloomy  "L," 
And  the  street-car  rattles  on  as  well, 
Motor-trucks  wheeze  and  limousines  purr, 
Everything  is  noisy — all  the  world's  a-stir ! 
Bang-whirr!     Bang-whirr!     We'll  join,  too, 
The  pavement  may  be  dirty,  but  the  sky's  clean  blue ! 

Whiz  by  the  lady  with  the  funny  little  girl, 

Swing  round  the  corner  in  a  gleeful  whirl ! 

Don't  bump  the  fat  man,  jump  the  other  way, 

Yell  a  little,  shout  a  little,  "Hip-horray !" 

Everybody's  busy — we'll  be  busy,  too, 

The  pavement  may  be  dirty,  but  the  sky's  clean  blue ! 


SHOPS. 

AJXT  ALICE  has  a  birthday, 
And  I've  shopped  all  afternoon, 
I  haven't  bought  a  single  thing, 
I'll  have  to  very  soon ; 

But  twenty  cents  is  such  a  lot, 

And  she's  so  very  nice 
That  I  must  be  most  sure  to  get 

The  best  thing  for  the  price. 


ALONE. 

WHITE  daisies  are  down  in  the  meadow, 
And  queer  little  beetles  and  things, 
And  sometimes  nice  rabbits  and  field-mice 
And  black-birds  with  red  on  their  wings. 

I  want  to  explore  all  alone, 

With  nobody  spying  around, 
All  alone,  all  alone,  all  alone ! 

It  has  such  a  wonderful  sound. 

Just  I  on  the  dusty  town  road, 

With  my  bank  money  safe  in  my  purse. 
Do  you  think  I  shall  ever  grow  up*? 

Or  shall  I  just  always  have  nurse? 


26 


SONG  FOR  A  CAMPER. 

Up  !  Up !    The  sky's  afloat 
With  dawn — cool  dawn 
And  the  mad  robin's  note  ! 
Down  to  the  lake, 
The  whole  world's  awake. 
Plunge  down,  down, 
Glad  arms  out-thrown, 
Through  the  crinkle  of  spray 
In  the  keen  new  day ; 
With  joy  a-tingle  in  heart  and  limb, 
Down,  boys,  down  for  the  morning  swim ! 


SONG  FOR  A  CHILD  TOSSING  A  BUBBLE. 

SWIFT!    Swift!    Whirling, 
Headlong,  petal-hurling. 
Wind,  wind,  whither  blowing*? 
Take  me  where  brown  brooks  are  flowing; 
Where  the  white-fringed  orchid's  growing. 
Wind,  wind,  whither  blowing? 

Up !    Up !    Dancing, 
Through  the  meadows  glancing. 
Bubble,  bubble,  whither  flying? 
Lead  me  where  new  hay  is  lying 
And  the  plaintive  thrush  is  crying. 
Bubble,  bubble,  whither  flying? 

Dreams !     Dreams !     Stealing, 

White-winged  birds  a-wheeling. 

Sleep,  sleep,  whither  straying? 

Soothe  me  where  bright  clouds  are  graying, 

And  silver  dream  fountains  are  playing. 

Sleep,  sleep,  whither  straying? 


28 


SONG  FOR  A  FORGOTTEN  SHRINE  TO  PAN. 

COME  to  me,  Pan,  with  your  wind-wild  laughter, 
Where  have  you  hidden  your  golden  reed "? 
Pipe  me  a  torrent  of  tune-caught  madness, 
Come  to  me,  Pan,  in  my  lonely  need. 

Where  are  the  white-footed  youths  and  the  maidens, 
Garlanded,  rosy-lipped,  lyric  with  spring*? 

They  tossed  me  poppies,  tall  lilies  and  roses 

And  now  but  the  winds  their  soft  blown  petals  bring. 

Where  are  the  fauns  and  the  nymphs  and  the  satyrs  *? 

Where  are  the  voices  that  sang  in  the  trees  *? 
Beauty  has  fled  like  a  wind-startled  nestling, 

Beauty,  O  Pan,  and  your  sweet  melodies. 

Come  to  me  !    Come  to  me !     God  of  mad  music, 
Come  to  me,  child  of  the  whispering  night. 

Bring  to  all  silences,  torrents  of  music, 
People  all  shadows  with  garlands  of  light. 


29 


ire 

(Suggested  by  Euripides'  Bacchantes.) 

COME  from  the  dusk  with  your  gold  locks  glinting, 
Maidens  with  fire-eyes,  white-footed  maidens. 
Gird  up  your  fawn-skins,  leap  to  the  mountains, 
Dionysus  calls  you — come  ! 

The  pine  trees  sway  as  we  leap  to  their  branches. 
The  night  wind  laughs  as  we  fly  on  its  wings, 
We  whirl  the  stars  with  our  wanton  thyrsi, 
Dionysus  calls — we  come! 

Bathe  in  the  fountains  of  milk  and  of  honey, 
Crush  with  your  dances,  the  new-plucked  grapes, 
Drink  ruby  madness,  drink  crystal  pleasure, 
Dionysus  calls  you — come  ! 

We  will  dance  with  the  fauns  and  the  leaping  stars, 
We  will  drink  cups  of  night  and  of  dawn, 
We  will  follow,  follow  your  gleaming  smile — 
You  call,  Dionysus,  we  come! 


LALAGE  AND  THE  SATYR. 

LALAGE : 

SEE  !    White  ghosts  are  stealing  through  the  trees, 
The  stars  are  dripping,  dripping  endlessly, 
All  frozen  and  their  old  fire  noiselessly 
Before  the  wind  into  blue  dimness  flees. 

Last  night  I  saw  a  black-winged  bat  that  flew 
Through  all  the  diamond  cob-webs  of  the  moon, 
Where  Puck  was  wont  to  dance  with  flaming  shoon 
Where  light,  and  joy,  and  love  were  born  and  grew. 

Ah,  where  is  Bacchus  and  his  golden  train  *? 
The  leprecauns  and  nymphs  have  fled  away, 
Mars  gleaming  helm,  grown  iron,  Venus  gray, 
Ah,  yes,  the  golden  stars  are  dripping  rain. 

SATYR : 

The  reeds  are  broken  by  the  riverside 
And  laughing  Pan  forgets  to  pipe  his  tunes 
No  mad-limbed  dryads  greet  the  rising  moons, 
No  wild  Bacchantes  on  the  wind's  back  ride. 

The  nights  are  empty  of  soft  murmurings 
Of  tree  nymphs  and  of  silver  naiads'  glee. 
Ah,  Lalage,  the  dull  mist  seems  to  me 
Alive  and  sweet  with  loved,  lost  echoings. 

Where  are  the  limbs  that  taught  the  snow  its  hue, 
Where  are  the  eyes  that  dreamed  the  violet 
And,  ah,  the  lips  where  earth  and  heaven  met ! 
Lalage,  Lalage,  you  have  vanished,  too ! 


A  MEMORY. 

THE  violets,  fresh  a  week  ago 
Are  brown  wisps  now,  the  lilies'  row 
Droops  languidly,  as  flower  by  flower 
They  tempt  the  bee  for  his  golden  hour, 
Then,  the  coquettes,  woo  the  season's  flight 
And  waste  their  beauty  over  night. 

Love  had  woven  a  garland,  gay, 
But  would  not  give  the  prize  away. 
She  tossed  me  one  burning  glowing  rose 
Then  vanished,  whither  no  one  knows — 
But  the  crinkled  petals  *? — I  have  those  ! 


LOVES. 

MY  first  love  was  golden, 
A  thing  of  sun-light  made, 
With  white  gold  in  her  laughter 
And  red  gold  in  her  braid. 

My  second  love  was  silver, 

Wrought  from  a  young  moon's  horn, 
With  quiet  silver  glances 

And  eyes  like  silver  morn. 

My  new  love  is  a  flame, 

Her  voice  a  trumpet  call. 
With  flag  and  sword  uplifted, 

I  kiss  her  lips  and  fall ! 


33 


KISS. 

HER  hair  was  as  gold  as  the  sun-spun  foam, 
Her  dress  as  green  as  the  bud-new  spring, 
And  her  eyes  were  full  of  the  wonder-light 
Of  youth's  young  worshipping. 

An  angel  passed  in  the  mellow  light, 

He  breathed  a  kiss  on  her  shimmering  hair, 
Where  it  glowed  like  a  gem  in  a  golden  snare, 
And  shyly,  it  lingered  there. 

A  troubadour  sang  in  the  silvered  night 
To  the  maiden's  golden  locks,  adrift 
Where  the  moonlight  laughed  at  her — sly  spendthrift, 
As  she  squandered  the  angel's  gift. 


34 


III.     MISCELLANEOUS 


ON  A  WINTER  SUNDAY. 

"To  the  truths  we  keep  coming  back  and  back 

— Robert  Frost. 

THE  slow  white  silence  of  the  snow 
Has  clothed  the  little  village  in  a  dream 
Of  stillness,  and  the  crazy,  muffled  bell 
Swings  high  and  low,  and  high  again  to  tell 
The  hour — as  through  the  aged  gate 
That  creaks, and  hangs  a  little  bit  awry 
Upon  its  rusty  hinges,  there  pass  by 
The  older  folk  we  used  to  know.     They  seem 
Saddened  and  quiet,  different  and  shy ! 

The  church  door  opens  and  the  light 
Pours  out  upon  them  and  envelopes  all 
In  its  soft  beam  of  ancient  kindliness. 
The  tiny  organ  seems,  somehow,  to  bless 
The  night — to  talk  of  God. 
And  in  the  song  are  all  the  olden  things 
We  love — the  touch  of  silver  angels'  wings, 
The  sound  of  holy  voices  in  the  night. 

Oh,  to  go  on  and  in  with  them,  to  feel 
Within,  like  burning  wine,  new  faith,  to  kneel 
Before  the  altar  of  our  memories  ! 
But  they  have  passed,  and  with  a  sigh,  we  see 
Like  some  huge  loneliness,  our  mangled  creed 
Looming  above — and  what  we  loved  before 
Fades  dim  before  the  things  that  we  believe ! 
****** 

The  sleet  beats  down,  unmercifully  cold, 

The  path  is  dark — see,  they  have  closed  the  door. 


37 


TO  CHARLES  X— JUST  MARRIED. 

You,  perhaps,  recall  those  golden  ways 
Filled  with  road-dust,  bounteous  light,  and  scent 
Of  countless  undreamed  flowers,  when  we  went 
With  souls  bared  each  to  each  and  to  the  breeze ; 
Counting  old  cares,  grown  to  glad  memories ; 
Talking  away  the  holidays. 

****** 
Last  night  when  I  had  clasped  your  hands  and  seen 
Your  happy  faces  in  the  candle  light, 
I  went  to  talk  a  little  to  the  night 
Of  comradeship  that  still  was  very  close ; 
But  as  I  said  farewell,  a  mist  arose, 
Like  to  her  love,  between. 


THE  BEE. 

THAT  clown  of  the  daisy's  ring, 
The  bee  with  his  yellow  coat, 
Is  humming  a  drowsy  chanting, 
A  honey-perfumed  chanting 
Of  the  June-tide  blossoming. 

The  spokes  of  the  whirling  wheel, 

The  belts  in  the  dapple  dusk, 

Through  dizzy  measures  reel 

While  white,  strained  fingers  feel, 

Like  animated  steel. 

O  child  eyes,  O  child  eyes, 

You  do  not  know  the  hills 

Or  the  hope  of  sun-swept  fields 

And  the  nodding  daffodils 

Of  morning  in  the  skies. 

O  tired  eyes,  O  tired  eyes, 

Your  sad  gaze  dreams  of  nought ; 

You  do  not  see  how  summer  flies, 

Or  care  that  daily  dies 

The  sun,  that  it  may  rise. 

That  clown  of  the  daisy's  ring, 
The  bee  with  his  yellow  coat, 
Is  humming  a  drowsy  chanting — 
Mad  shuttles  drown  his  chanting ! 
Quick !     Time  and  Death  are  coming ! 


39 


THE  PIPER  OF  WEINSBERG. 

(A  ballad  of  the  Peasants'  War.) 

COUNT  Louis  sat  in  his  high-beamed  hall, 
Dark  were  the  shadows  that  streaked  the  wall 
And  dark  the  thoughts  that  pelted  down 
Like  stinging  drops  of  storm-blown  rain 
To  sere  his  heart  with  wrath  and  pain. 

"Melchior,  Melchior,  play !"  he  cried. 
The  piper  sprang  to  his  master's  side. 
"Play  me  a  song  of  laughter.    Play 
Till  care  and  brooding  anger  fade." 
And  Melchior,  trembling  with  fear,  obeyed. 

The  notes  laughed  high,  the  notes  laughed  low, 
But  the  piper's  eyes  grew  deep  with  woe, 
And  the  trembling  depths  of  his  own  despair 
Rushed  from  the  pipes  in  a  strangled  wail — 
And  the  brooding  count  in  the  dusk,  grew  pale. 

"Hush!"  and  he  struck  the  piper  down. 
"Go  play  your  tune  to  the  rabble  town, 
They'll  add  their  whine  as  a  gay  refrain 
To  your  merry  melody.    Now  go ! 
Go  bark  with  the  peasant  whelps  below !" 

Melchior  crept  to  the  great  hall  door, 
The  torch-light  danced  on  the  wide-stretched  floor 
And  long  through  the  quiet  night,  the  count 
Fought  with  the  fear  of  a  phantom  sound — 
A  wailing  of  pipes  that  hedged  him  round. 


Count  Louis  sat  in  his  high-beamed  hall, 
Bright  were  the  torches  that  gleamed  from  the  wall 
As  a  motley  crowd  of  his  merry  men 
Sang,  while  they  swung  and  tossed  their  ale ; 
When — swift  from  the  night  shrilled  the  piper's  wail. 

40 


Up  from  the  valley,  wild  and  clear, 
Trembling  with  passionate  hate  and  fear 
It  pierced  like  a  dart.     The  singers  hushed 
Their  rollicking  song — they  flocked  to  look; 
And  the  hands  that  flung  the  casement,  shook ! 

Their  drunken  eyes  peered  forth,  "To  sword ! 
The  serfs,  the  serfs  !" — below,  the  horde, 
Swinging  their  glittering  torches,  wound 
Like  a  scarlet  snake  up  the  narrow  path, 
Led  on  by  the  piper's  song  of  wrath. 

They  tore  the  count  from  his  men  away, 
They  snatched  his  coat  and  his  doublet,  gay, 
They  stripped  him  clean — and  Melchior  bowed, 
"Come,  come,  Sir  Count !     Pray  dance  with  me, 
I'll  pipe  for  you  now  in  a  merry  key !" 

Two  lines  of  spears  gleamed  through  the  night — 

A  glittering  hell  in  the  scarlet  light — 

"Dance,  dance  !"    And  the  pipe's  mad  laugh  pursued 

The  tortured  soul  of  the  count  that  fled 

As  the  red  spears  tossed  him  overhead ! 


41 


TO  AN  INTELLECTUALIST. 

HAVE  you  ever  felt  the  touch 
Of  soft  wings  in  the  night  ? 
Or  played  at  being  river  god 
In  some  red  mountain  brook*? 
Or  walked  with  Christ  across  the  dawn 
When  no  one  else  was  near 
To  say  he  was  but  myth? 

You  have  not? 

Then  go  back  to  your  dull  books, 

And  tired,  dusty  thoughts, 

Until,  perhaps,  some  day 

A  sudden  mist  will  dim  your  eyes 

And  there, 

Between  you  and  your  intellect — 

God! 


42 


YET  MORE  THAN  THIS. 

HAVE  you  sought  beauty  where  night  mystifies 
The  loves  and  laughter  of  the  cool  closed  flowers  7 
Have  you  learned  the  exquisite  passion  of  dear  eyes 
Or  followed  the  furious  path  of  autumn  showers? 

There  are  eyes  of  anguish  in  the  thronging  street, 

Made  tender  by  a  longing  for  the  dawn. 
There  are  lives  of  irony !   .  .  .  but  these  are  sweet 

In  dreams  of  secret  gentleness,  not  gone, 

But  hiding  for  a  space ;  and  there  are  those 

Who  sing  the  mountain  heights  of  life  along, 

Stilling  the  world  to  watch  a  budding  rose  *? 

And  knowing  these — have  you  found  nought  but  song? 


43 


IV.     SONNETS 


THESE  were  the  meadow  lands  of  his  delight, 
Far-stretching  to  the  green  hills  and  the  sky, 
And  here  the  brook  he  fished  in,  laughing  by 
With  benison  of  comfort.    And  the  light, 
Sorrowing  for  him,  veils  with  graying  white 
The  ripples  and  the  sleepy  herds  that  lie 
Dreaming.     Far  overhead  his  wild  things  cry, 
Swaying  among  the  rushes  after  flight. 

I  pick  a  bit  of  beauty  for  his  room, 

A  chastened  branch  of  late  October  leaves 

And  sigh  to  think  that  he  has  left  the  whole : 

The  future  quietness  of  snow,  the  bloom 

Of  sudden  April — yet  my  heart  believes 

That  here,  in  deepening  beauty,  dwells  his  soul. 


47 


BEYOND  a  stretch  of  quiet  loveliness 
As  white  as  lyric  joy,  the  new  snows  lie 
Soothing  the  silver  brook's  stilled  witchery, 
Masking  the  dreaming,  brooding  wilderness. 
The  wind  has  caught  into  its  cool  caress 
The  outlines  of  the  hills,  and  all  the  sky 
Swirls  with  a  mingled  veil  of  purity, 
As  angeled,  high  white  heaven  stoops  to  bless. 

Glorious  whiteness  hides  the  crying  pain 
Of  new-made  graves — it  stills  new  sorrowing. 
The  valleys  and  the  hills  know  solitude ; 
The  river  and  the  plain  are  one  again ; 
For,  like  forgetfulness,  the  long  drifts  bring 
Silence  and  peace — a  white  beatitude. 


I  WATCHED  you  as  you  turned  and  waited  there, 
Slim,  in  the  darkened  hall,  and  like  a  cloud 
Blown  to  the  ruddy  moon,  your  amber  hair 
Clustered  about  your  face.     I  cried  aloud 
The  thoughts  that  harried  me !     Could  you  not  love 
As  I  love ! — Like  a  snow-stilled  stretch  of  plain 
The  silent  house,  with  your  dim  face  above, 
Gloriously  holy  with  unspoken  pain. 

There  are  sorrows  that  burn  like  bands  of  white-hot  steel 

And  pains  that  lower  like  an  angry  sky ! 

I  knelt — and  in  the  darkness  I  could  feel 

Your  dear  hand  stretched  to  comfort  me.     Why,  why, 

Did  you  not  chide  my  petty  love  or  flee ! 

Oh,  how  your  tender  pity  tortured  me. 


49 


YOUR  voice  has  followed,  like  a  temple  bell 
Rung  in  some  long-forgotten  old  world  tower 
Far  down  the  dusky  years.    I  cannot  tell 
In  what  lost  world  or  when  the  golden  hour 
That  dreamed  your  love,  this  only  know  I :  now 
In  the  uncertain  labyrinth  of  ways 

I've  found  you !  .  .  .  Hear,  the  brook  is  laughing,  low, 
And  every  blossom  with  the  night  wind  sways. 

Low-stretching  plains  are  harried  by  the  wind, 
Seas,  stars  and  worlds  move  endlessly  and  far ; 
But  may  death,  swift  across  the  ages,  find 
Our  souls  in  silent  peace,  as  now  they  are ; 
And,  like  a  dusky  curtain  falling,  be 
Sleep  without  dreaming  .  .  .  love's  finality. 


You  love  me  as  in  some  remembered  dream, 
Filled  with  the  scent  of  falling  flowers  and  rain. 
Like  a  wet  rose-bud  in  the  dawn,  you  seem 
Asleep,  unmindful  of  the  boundless  pain 
And  crying  joy  that  is  my  love  for  you. 
Awake  ! — the  noon  heat  quivers  in  the  sky ; 
Love  me  like  light,  swift-piercing  through  the  blue 
Of  cloud-tossed  skies ;  like  wild,  clear  melody. 

Awake ! — and  like  a  fleeing  nun,  unveil 

The  passionate  sweetness  of  your  fearless  eyes. 

Open  the  petals  of  that  dawn  rose,  pale 

Before  the  flaming  love  that  glorifies 

Your  dreaming  soul.     Awake  ! — sweep  dreams  away 

Before  the  burning  glory  of  the  day. 


You  were  the  temple  of  my  soul's  desire, 
Far  distant  from  the  town  and  market-place. 
Night  after  night,  I'd  watch  the  sky  to  trace 
The  slender  outline  of  your  top-most  spire — 
Now  dark  and  cold — now  suddenly  a-nre 
As  angels  hovered,  hallowing  the  place 
With  holy  song.    All  beauty,  hope  and  grace 
Clad  you  with  distant  power  to  inspire. 

But  once  I  crossed  the  plain  that  lay  between, 
To  cast  my  sorrows  at  your  inner  shrine 
And  found  a  brooding  portal  veiled  with  gloom. 
No  longer  could  the  tapering  spire  be  seen, 
And  you,  that  were  afar,  this  faith  of  mine, 
Proved,  as  I  passed  within,  an  empty  tomb. 


I  HAVE  watched  too  long  for  You  to  come  to  me, 
Like  a  sudden  dawn  across  some  purple  hill. 
I  have  waited,  longed,  and  waited  on,  until 
The  dim  months  fade  and  life  has  grown  to  be 
A  tasteless  drug,  easing  me  on  to  see 
The  ultimate  hope  that  dreams  and  death  fulfill. 
Yes,  I  have  struggled,  but  You've  torn  my  will 
Ruthless,  apart,  as  lightning  shreds  a  tree. 

I  watched  for  You  in  beauty  and  in  joy, 
Faces  of  friends,  old  songs  and  open  fires ; 
Sought  life  and  thought  to  live  it  boldly  through 
With  all  the  madness  of  a  wayward  boy ; 
But  through  this  mesh  of  furies  and  desires, 
Since  You  come  not,  I  can  but  come  to  You ! 


53 


THE  cool  dawn  wind  has  hurried  far  away 
The  mounded  mist,  and  all  the  world  lies,  young 
Upon  the  trembling  bosom  of  the  day, 
Rippling  with  strange  new  anthems,  yet  unsung. 
Ah,  you  have  led  me  to  this  crest  of  light 
Adown  the  waving  valleys  of  the  spring 
Into  the  hush  of  thrilled,  sweet  vision,  white 
With  angels'  wings  and  peace  of  worshipping. 

But,  oh,  the  old  roads,  matted  with  wind  and  tears 
And  bordered  with  long  rushes,  speaking  low 
The  little  evils  of  the  day,  the  fears 
That  grave  the  binding  wrinkles  on  my  brow ! 
Lord,  take  them  where  the  old,  dull  pains  have  gone, 
Until,  alone,  my  soul  beholds  the  dawn. 


54 


SOMETIMES  I  see  Him  in  the  morning  dew, 
When  every  blossom  quivers  in  the  breeze, 
Or  when  deep  night  steals  down  across  the  blue 
And  purple  shadows  draw  the  angry  seas 
Unto  the  stars !    And  then  my  spirit  flees 

Up  with  the  spray,  where,  like  a  bird,  suspended, 
I  hear  the  sound  of  mortal  melodies 
With  cloud  and  wind-song  gloriously  blended. 
There,  in  the  golden  path  of  star-filled  cloud, 
Clean-spirited  and  like  a  god  I  lie, 
Lifted  and  carried  by  a  winged  crowd, 
Higher  and  higher,  through  the  mystery 
Of  space,  where  with  the  cherubim  is  heard 
The  tenderness  and  wonder  of  God's  Word. 


55 


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